


(Mis) Understanding

by DrFish



Series: To Belong [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship, Gay Panic Hiking, Language Barrier, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Ocean, OctoJohn, Possessive John Watson, Science, Scientist Sherlock, Size Difference, Swimming, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 08:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26969143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrFish/pseuds/DrFish
Summary: Sherlock's friendship continues to develop with John, the half-man half-octopus sea creature who rescued him from certain death and now cares for him on a deserted tropical island. As with most friendships, some misunderstandings are bound to arise.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: To Belong [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912822
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

William Sherlock Scott Holmes is 24 years old and he lives a simple life on a small island in the western tropical Pacific Ocean. Every day he rises from his plain bed of grass mats before the sun breaches the horizon. In the dim light of the early morning, when the sky is cast in serene blue and the coming day holds endless possibilities, he marks his notebook to count the days, now 47, since this new life began. 

Sherlock had found great pleasure and pride in building a simple 1-room house where he keeps his meager belongings. He constructed the round grass walls and palm frond roof in imitation of the dwellings he saw in the Islanders' village, using the plant fiber ropes they had so generously given him. Though the grass house is just large enough for him to lay down inside, he prefers to sleep outside adjacent to the lagoon and beneath the low canopy made of sail cloth. He finds the closed space of the windowless room disagreeable, and he struggles to remember how ordinary he once found the stuffy parlors and classrooms of his former life.

The weather has shifted. Though it is still plenty warm, it rains heavily for a brief time almost every day. When these downpours occur, Sherlock often sits under his sail cloth, or stands out naked in the rain to clean the dirt and salt from his skin.

Sherlock's life in England had been very lonely. As a boy, he had no tolerance for the inane trivialities and games of the other children. In school, he belonged even less, the teachers despised his cleverness and unwillingness to sit quietly when he was far wiser than the lot of them. In adulthood, many sought his company but were turned away by his unstoppable honesty and desire to prove to all that he was the most intelligent man among them. He was an embarrassment to his mother and father because, though he was an eligible bachelor, he had no interest in the fairer sex. He had no ambitions and no friends or companions to speak of.

Here, though, Sherlock is not lonely because every day he has the company of his one true friend, John. John is the singular specimen of _Homo octopoda_ , a magnificent half-man, half-octopod sea creature. John rescued him from certain drowning and brought him here to this deserted island. John brings him goods pilfered from sailing ships and items given him by the people of a neighbor island who revere John as their protector. John has not taken Sherlock back to see the Island People, instead, keeping him solitary, but lavished with attention and well cared for. Each day, John brings him a new fish which Sherlock sketches carefully in his notebook. On days that Sherlock builds a fire, he cooks the fish, and him and John eat it together. On other days, Sherlock subsides on fruits picked from the trees and root vegetables that John brings him from the Island People.

Sherlock has become much more accustom to swimming in the ocean lagoon with John. He has come to trust the giant creature, who is always nearby and ready to take Sherlock into his secure arms should he grow tired or be startled by a shark or seal. Sherlock feels so safe with his friend that on several occasions they have ventured beyond the relative safety of the reef out into the bottomless blue of the open ocean. 

When they are not swimming together or sharing a meal, the unlikely pair simply sit together on the beach. John rests with his octopod parts in the sea while Sherlock rests on the dry sand. As one might expect of an octopod, John is a very tactile creature, relying first and foremost on his sense of touch. When they sit together, John will occasionally reach out with a tentacle to touch at Sherlock's hands or face, demonstrating the importance of touch in his abilities to assess the human's condition. 

Sherlock has still never heard his companion speak. Instead, they have devised a repertoire of hand signals, Sherlock teaching John to understand the spoken English word for each one, as his hearing seems equal to any human's. The words in their vocabulary grow each day, as John is very intelligent. The words between them include fish, fire, swim, cold, hungry, later, yesterday, palm frond, sleep, turtle, shark, land, sunrise, sunset, freshwater, fruit, go back, rope, boat, Island People, clothes, and several others.

There are many wonderful things on John's island to occupy Sherlock's time. He has spent much effort cataloging the plentiful species of plants, birds, and creatures in the surrounding waters as well as constructing detailed maps of the shore and surrounding lagoon. If he follows the beach to the opposite side of the great hill, he can see where the Island People live. The larger neighbor island is crowned with numerous, tall peaks. Sherlock has yet to venture high into the interior of his own island, but when he does, he hopes to see from the higher vantage point if there are any more neighboring lands.

Sherlock occupies his curiosity most often with John. He observes his companion carefully, noting that he often searches for food in the mornings and he eats at least 3 times as much as Sherlock does. John often tears the raw flesh from fish with his pointy teeth, but he seems to especially enjoy when Sherlock shares cooked fish with him. John rarely leaves the ocean entirely, though he certainly can. Instead, when he wants to be close to Sherlock while he sits on the shore, John will recline, chest against the sand, arms crossed beneath his chin, the small waves lapping at his waste with his octopod parts submerged in the lagoon. 

John has 4 pairs of very large, very strong tentacles. The pair closest to his front are somewhat longer and more slender at the tips, and the hind pair are the most stout. Sherlock has never seen what lies buried inside the ring of tentacles, but he assumes John must possess an anus, perhaps at the center of the tentacles where an octopus's mouth would be. Sherlock has no knowledge as to the details of John's sex. Sherlock remembers his invertebrate zoology class at the University quite well. If John is like other octopods, and he is male as his countenance suggests, then one or two of his tentacles would be specially adapted to deliver his seed to a female. Many octopus species enter senescence and die shortly after reproducing, so Sherlock hopes quite strongly this is not the case with his friend. 

Sherlock sketches most everything he observes in one of his notebooks with hopes that someday his observations will be absorbed into the great body of knowledge treasured by academia. However, he does not sketch or record information on John for fear that men would come to hunt him if he were discovered. Instead, Sherlock prefers to commit all details of John to memory, where they are safe and treasured.


	2. Chapter 2

For as curious as Sherlock is of his companion, John is doubly attentive to Sherlock's needs and observant of his habitats. In fact, John's attentiveness likely contributed to the occurrence of an unfortunate incident between them one morning. 

Sherlock slept lightly, naked, as always, on his bed of grass mats. He rose from the depths of sleep into the early dawn, in an unusual state of arousal. The feeling of warmth and damp around his manhood was strong. With one hand wrapped around the rigidity of his shaft, he delivered slow, languid strokes. In a state of demi-sleep, he imagined that it was John's human hand, not his own, that was delivering his pleasure. In his fantasy, John enveloped Sherlock's body in his strong tentacles, reserving his hands for more gentle explorations of Sherlock's most private places. The John in Sherlock's imagination was surprisingly talented in delivering such satisfaction, and in a few short moments, Sherlock quietly uttered John's name as he reached his climax. His seed spilled in creamy spurts across his own stomach. 

Basking in the warmth of his release, Sherlock emerged more fully from sleep to gaze up at the open blue pre-dawn sky, dotted with a few remnants of the night's stars. Feeling comfortable and relaxed, Sherlock turned on his side to face the ocean. 

John was in surprising proximity at the edge of the water. Though his features were not clear in the early dawn light, Sherlock could tell John's octopod eyes were wide in surprise, his octopod skin inky and almost black. He had undoubtedly just observed the rather private moment. Sherlock gasped in chagrin and in an uncharacteristic act of modesty quickly covered his softening member from John's intrigued stare. Surely, John must understand the coital actions of human men? Why did his facial expression convey such... shock? Disgust? Embarrassment? Was he offended at the utterance of his name? Did he disapprove of Sherlock wasting his own seed in this way? Did John always watch him in his sleep?

With speed and grace, John performed an about-turn and fled into the sea. 

Sherlock was overcome with guilt. The physical intimacy he casually enjoyed with John had never been sexual: the strong tentacles and arms holding him steady, guiding him through the sea, helping to communicate his intent, or touching Sherlock in the inexplicably scrutinizing way that John often did. Never once had John indicated his interest in such relations. Now by himself, stung by the awkward exchange with his friend, Sherlock considered his feelings honestly and felt ashamed. 

Sherlock admitted to himself that this was not the first time he had allowed himself to indulge in several improper dreams and fantasies involving his companion. John would understandably be appalled if he could see what was inside Sherlock's heart and mind, perhaps that is why John had fled with such haste. That morning, Sherlock decided that such urges and fantasies were a danger to their friendship, and resolved to suppress or better conceal such feelings. But perhaps it was already too late.

Sherlock rose and built a fire, but John did not bring him a fish. Sherlock continued his morning, turning his attentions to strengthening the roof over the ocean-facing side of his small house, all the while keeping watch for John to return. The sun rose high in the sky and began to decline, and still John did not return.

Feeling angry with himself and frightened that his actions may have endangered their easy companionship, Sherlock decided he would benefit from venturing upland into the verdant interior of the island for the first time. It seemed the perfect opportunity since John was apparently ignoring him. He would also enjoy the exercise and distraction of documenting the journey in his notebook. Sherlock had explored the beaches quite thoroughly, often with John swimming alongside as Sherlock walked on the sand. They had seen in their wanderings that less than a mile down the beach, there was a stream valley that cut a gradual slope into the great hill, and might provide a good place to climb.

So, Sherlock made preparations to undertake the journey. The moon had been rising early and was very full, so he was not concerned with disembarking so late in the day, as long as he returned to the beach by dark, he knew he could make his way. He put on his old trousers, which were now frayed very short and really quite in need of mending, and tied the knife that John had given him to the waste. He ate and drank enough to sustain him for several hours, though he was confident he could find freshwater and fruits along the way. He covered each foot with thick leaves and a portion of sailcloth, tying the layers into place loosely with a length of plant fiber rope. Satisfied with the design of his improvised shoes, he took them off to carry with him down the beach until he ventured up the craggy rock streambed. He also carried with him a notebook and a pencil.

Sherlock reached the confluence of the stream with the sea and donned his leaf and sailcloth shoes. He searched the shallow waters for signs of John one last time, and seeing none, he began his journey up the streambed. 

As Sherlock had hoped, he soon began to enjoy the journey, collecting leaves and flowers to sketch for later, carefully mapping the topography around him, and counting the paces between each turn so that he could track distance between features. The forest was thick and green, replete with fruit trees and colorful birds chirping merrily and showing no fear of him, as they were undoubtedly completely naive to humans. 

Several hours must have passed, and as he climbed higher, the terrain became increasingly steep. Finally, the streambed he was following dead-ended in a pool surrounded by tall vertical rock faces on 3 sides. Water trickled down to feed the pool from a falls at the top, some 10 yards above his head. Realizing he could go no farther and the sun would soon set, Sherlock decided to return to the beach.

The journey down the hill was certainly quicker, but no less strenuous, and by the time Sherlock reached the sea, his feet were sore and his hips, knees, and ankles were aching. He removed his sailcloth shoes, being careful to save the used ropes and sailcloth, but discarding the worn leaves. He was proud of the design as his feet had been protected remarkably well. In the dwindling daylight, he rested briefly before continuing down the beach towards his home, full notebook in hand. He walked where the warm ocean waves could lap at his weary feet. He searched the water once or twice for signs of John but he saw none. Perhaps John would be back at their beach when he returned, but perhaps Sherlock would spend the night by himself for the first time. He tried not to worry, but is was difficult, and he was lost in thought as he walked along.


	3. Chapter 3

The tranquility of the evening was interrupted by a sudden, violent burst of motion from the waves. A deep rumbling noise accompanied John's massive form as it lunged from the water, seizing Sherlock roughly around the waste and neck with his strong tentacles and abruptly snatching him into the sea. Sherlock let out a surprised shout and tried to hold the notebook high so that it would not get wet, but angry-red colored tentacles had wrapped tight around both his wrists, pulling his arms down to his sides and plunging the precious notebook, still clutched in Sherlock's hand, into the sea. Sherlock was fully immobilized, submerged to his neck, held firm with his head back against John's chest so that he could not see the creature's face. Sherlock struggled in vain as Octopoda pulled him farther out into the lagoon, moving so fast that they cast a wake in their path. 

"Please, John!" Sherlock choked out as he continued to struggle against the creature's hold. He could feel the rough edges of the suckers on his skin where they gripped his chest and throat. They had reached the fringing reef and John hoisted Sherlock, together with his own massive form, from the water as he climbed over the shallow reef without hardly slowing down, and dropped back into the blue ocean beyond it. Sherlock had never seen John do that, he normally found a channel to pass through. Their movement through the water had slowed a bit but they continued to move farther away form the island. "Go back! Land!" Sherlock shouted, using words he knew John understood. John did not respond. There was nothing Sherlock could do but squeeze his eyes shut against the splashing water and wait, hoping that John would calm himself soon. 

John was upset. Angry, even. Was Sherlock not permitted to go to the Island's interior? Had he broken a custom or rule that he was oblivious to? Was John still disturbed by what had happened that morning? Sherlock was quite confused, and a little frightened, by John's strange behavior. Octopoda had certainly never handled him so roughly or around the neck before. But, the friendship and trust they had built between them was strong and Sherlock calmed himself, willing his muscles to relax and his mind to believe that John would never really hurt him.

Gradually, John's motions slowed and his grip on Sherlock's body loosened slightly. The tentacle around Sherlock's neck moved away, leaving some rough scratches behind. Once Sherlock could turn his head, he stayed close, pressing one ear against John's chest. He realized the deep rumbling noise he had heard earlier was, in fact, coming from inside John. He coughed to expel a small amount of water that had flooded into his nose and blinked open his eyes. When he instinctively tried to lift his hand to wipe the water from his face, the tentacle wrapped around his wrist allowed him to do so. 

They had come to a stop in the blue water, and Sherlock could feel John's hind tentacles pulsing as he swam in place to keep them surfaced. Sherlock waited patiently as John held his body close, the tentacles clutching his body firmly almost everywhere. Even though John always seemed to be the same temperature as the ocean, being held so firmly, Sherlock could now feel a warmth in the creature that he hadn't noticed before. He looked up when he felt John's human hand stroke gently over his cheek.

John moved him away several inches and shifted such that they were at eye level. In the dim light, Sherlock could see John's expression had softened. His eyes were tinged with sadness, remorse, but most of all, _fear_. 

Suddenly, Sherlock understood. _Fear_. John had been just as horrified of losing Sherlock as Sherlock had been of losing him. 

Sherlock had lost track of time, how long had he been gone from his usual abode while he explored the hill? What had John thought when he returned to the beach to find Sherlock absent? Clearly, he must have feared the worst. How long had he been searching for Sherlock? Had he searched the depths of the lagoon for his lifeless body, or painstakingly examined the entire length of beach? After considering these points, while looking into John's silent eyes, Sherlock concluded that his actions were driven not by anger, but likely by fear. In that light, John's behavior when he reclaimed the human from the land seemed understandable.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock spoke quietly. "I'm sorry I made you worry," he added. He doubted John could understand, but he spoke anyway, "and I'm sorry about this morning," then he rephrased, "I'm sorry about today sunrise." As far as Sherlock knew, the English words _sorry_ and _worry_ were not in John's vocabulary, but _today_ and _sunrise_ certainly were. Sherlock searched John's face, trying to gauge his response. An unsettled expression crossed John's features, and his gaze shifted away, then back, to Sherlock. It was not a look of disgust or offense, but one of... contrition?

Sherlock raised his hands up from the water, the tentacle wrapped around each wrist had loosened and slid down so they now supported his upper arms, helping to keep him upright. He still had the notebook, wet but hopefully salvageable, clutched in one hand. With the other, he reached for John's face, stroking the smooth cheek before leaning in to hug him. They stayed like that for some time, chest-to-chest, Sherlock resting his head on John's shoulder and trying to convey through the hug what words could not: that it was all just a misunderstanding and he held no ill feelings towards his friend. By the time the sun's light had faded from the horizon, leaving only the silver glow of moonlight, Sherlock had been in the water for quite some time and he began to feel cold. 

Sensing his discomfort, or perhaps feeling his slight shivers, John began to move and Sherlock was surprised when he felt the swimming motion transition to shuffling as John reached the beach much sooner than he expected. He had thought they were farther away, but perhaps John had simply planned to bring him back all along so he hadn't taken Sherlock that far out to sea, but was instead moving parallel to shore. 

John deposited Sherlock on the sand next to his home and then slowly retreated back into the water. Sherlock clutched one tentacle in his hand, just to make sure John understood he wanted him to stay. John did stay, resting in his usual place in the gently lapping waves.

Sherlock set the notebook aside and shed his wet trousers. He grabbed the sailor's shirt and slipped it over his head, enjoying the modest warmth it provided. It was not enough though, and he realized he was quite hungry. Feeling in the darkness to assemble materials for a fire and finding his flintstones, he sparked a fire and carefully stoked it until the flames were tall, returning the warmth to his limbs.

All this time, John simply watched him, per his usual habit. As the flames began to die down to coals, John swam off into the lagoon, submerged, and quickly surfaced with a fish that he brought back to Sherlock. Sherlock gratefully took the offering, cleaned it, cooked it over the fire, and shared it with John. The two friends had a quiet and enjoyable meal together. Sherlock enjoyed the domesticity of the moment and felt increasingly confident that their friendship seemed very much intact.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come visit me on Tumblr!!!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drfish)


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